Every You, Every Me
by Saucery
Summary: Peter has always wanted Stiles. Now, he has the means to get him.


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Notes: Set in the immediate aftermath of season 2, episode 5. Based (in part) on the premise that Stiles and Lydia have been sexually involved since the beginning of the season, and continue to be, despite the whole Jackson situation.

Dedication: Written for Zan, who wanted Peter/Stiles/Lydia.

Title: The title is from Placebo's song of the same name.

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**EVERY YOU, EVERY ME**

* * *

So. Lydia's been weird, lately. Not in a bad way - clearly, nothing about Lydia can be bad or even merely acceptable - she's_divine_, descended from the heavens with stars in her hair - but, uh. Weird. Worrying, maybe. Like the way she spaces out, sometimes, even while they're having sex, and goes from her usual shut-up-and-let-me-do-this-right-Stiles attitude to… to that _other_ attitude.

The one that makes goosebumps break out all over his skin, and not always in a sexy way.

The one she has now. Coolly observant, _foreign_, a strange smile curling her mouth, the slide of her palms over his shoulders somehow creepily proprietary, like he isn't just her almost-boyfriend (they're not officially dating, no matter how often he asks her) but is something more _and_ less than that. It's -

It's weird. And he has no idea what to do about it except to go along with it, and do whatever Lydia suggests (commands, really), because that's what he's used to doing, and also, he gets the distinct feeling at times like these that if he doesn't give in, Lydia's going to _snap_. It's sort of like when Derek goes Alpha on him, and, ew, that is _not_ a thought he needs to be having when his dick's getting sucked. Just. No.

"Focus," Lydia murmurs, and smiles that smile.

Stiles shivers -

- and she smiles some more. "Always were clever, weren't you?" Which, what? "Then I suppose you know what I want you to do."

Oh. She wants him to -

Fine. It's fine. They've done this before. He's even _liked_ this before, but it doesn't stop freaking him out, every time. Not because he doesn't trust her not to hurt him - he _does_ - but because she doesn't act like herself, while they're doing it. Hell, she doesn't even talk like herself. And maybe it's that 'headspace' crap he's read about on BDSM websites, but somehow, it doesn't feel like it. This isn't just a whole other headspace; it's a whole other _person_space. As if Lydia's got her very own Jekyll and Hyde thing going on, except that she clearly isn't dissociative; that's another thing he looked up on the internet, and no, he's sure Lydia isn't losing time.

Not that he's been able to talk about these 'episodes' with her, normally, because she gets all standoffish and paranoid when he tries, but the fact that she _gets_ standoffish and paranoid indicates that she remembers there's something to get standoffish and paranoid about, so. No memory loss. It's not Dissociative Identity Disorder. Although there have been exceptions…

"Are you psychoanalyzing me, Stiles?" Lydia seems amused. "What conclusions have you reached?"

"None," he mutters, and turns over onto his stomach, crossing his wrists over his head. His dick pushes eagerly into Lydia's floral-scented sheets, and the smell of her surrounds him, calms him. She straddles one of his legs, wet pussy rubbing the back of his thigh and making him _gasp_.

Lydia laughs. "Want in?"

"Yes," he rasps.

She slaps his ass a little _too_ hard; it stings and makes him jump. "What do we say?"

"Yes," he repeats. "Please."

"_Good_ boy. Maybe you'll even get it, if you can make it through without moving, this time."

"I won't - "

"No cuffs. Leave your hands where they are. If you move them, or try to turn over, or try to touch me, that's it. You won't be getting _this_ tonight."

Stiles spares a longing glance for the side table, in which the cuffs are. They make this so much easier. He's never managed to stay still without them - but he guesses that's the point, to train him to be still just by listening to Lydia, to Lydia's commands. He tries not to think of it as being her very own trained dog, but… even that gets him hard. That's - that's no lie. The fact that it freaks him out _and_ gets him hard at the same time only makes everything more intense, makes him press his wrists viciously against each other until he can feel the bones grind.

"Lie still."

"I plan to," he snarks, and gets spanked again for his trouble.

It doesn't take long to prep him. He's used to it, by now; sometimes, he even does it to himself, not just when Lydia's watching, but when he's alone, because there's something… visceral… about having her _inside_ him. Her fingers. Her (very, very occasional) tongue. He closes his eyes and thinks about it, thinks about how he'd fingered himself in the shower just yesterday, his own knuckles too big and unfamiliar when all he'd wanted was her hands, her graceful, perfect _hands_ -

And he has them, right this second. Or rather, they have _him_, holding him open and oiling his ass, and running over and over his hole, again again, in teasing circles, until he moans and breaks into uncontrollable shudders. His nipples harden to peaks against the coarse decorative weave of the bedsheets, all jungle-birds and flower-vines, and sweat trickles between his shoulder-blades until he's in a near-agony of needing to scratch them, to ease that maddening itch, but he can't move his stupid arms.

"Don't," Lydia says, when his biceps _quiver_, and he keeps shuddering, minute shocks of sensation from the rim of his ass, but then, she's in him. She's _in_ him, one finger at a time, getting to two, getting to _three_ -

"Hallelujah," he breathes, shakily, and she snorts.

"Sacrilege."

"_You're_ my religion, baby."

"Hm. Especially when I'm milking your prostate?"

"Ye-_es_," he groans, voice cracking, because she's - god, she's _fucking_ him now, slow, steady thrusts of her pretty, pretty fingers - and that still blows his mind, the thought that those neat, nail-polished, perfectly manicured works of _art_ are fucking him, that they're in his _ass_, that the same fingers she uses to write goddamn flawlessly correct equations on the chalkboard or to put mascara on her eyelashes or to authoritatively _order_ lesser beings out of her way - that _those_ fingers are _opening_ him, from the inside out.

She's - she's everything. God, she's -

His dick is so _hard_ -

"Patience," she says, in that frighteningly calm way, again, no longer amused, just - quiet, _focused_, like he's one of her damned science projects and she absolutely has to get him right. It's flattering, to have all that laser-sharp attention on him, but it's also like being stripped to his _bones_, like she's eating him with her eyes, and not in a euphemistic way, either. Like, if she had claws and fangs, it might be _literal_ -

"Please - "

"You do know it's the full moon, don't you?"

"Huh?"

"The first full moon since the beginning of our… intimacies?"

_Intimacies?_

"I've been so very careful. And you've been delightful, really, you have."

"I… Lydia?" She isn't herself, again. What -

"Hush." She bends forward, until her long hair sweeps forward to tickle him and her breasts rest ever so _gently_ on his back, and her free hand comes up to hold his wrists in place. For a petite girl, she has one hell of a reach. Must be all those gymnastic classes. "I never practice what I don't preach, you know. When I council patience, it's because I practice it. _Have_ been practicing it. For years. In the hospital and out. While you grew, while you became _right_ for me. All those years, those burning _years_, you tender, _tender_ boy - "

"Wh-what?" He's honestly alarmed, now. Even if Lydia thinks this is some kind of awesome roleplay, or whatever. He makes as if to move -

And Lydia's hand clamps _down_ on him. "Don't," she says, again, although it's more of a growl, low-voiced and almost completely alien; the only thing recognizable about it is that it's coming from Lydia's vocal chords, but that's about it.

"Time out," Stiles says, because even though they don't have a safeword, this shit is getting _weird_. In-a-bad-way weird. "We've gotta talk about - "

"Be. _Silent_," she hisses, right in his ear, and Stiles…

Stiles's throat closes up, and his body freezes. Just -

Just like that, like an involuntary spasm that wracks him and then leaves him unable to _move_, and it's like -

It's like what happened when the kanima - Jackson - paralyzed him, except that his skin isn't numb, it's just his _mind_ -

His thoughts seem to be growing _slower_ -

"Beautiful," Lydia says, which is total crap, because _what_? Stiles is beautiful? Stiles? In front of _her_? No way. "You're mine, now. A month of persuading you to submit to me, and for all your initial hesitance, you're my Beta now, aren't you?"

Stiles can't open his mouth. He can't _speak_ -

Lydia isn't supposed to have turned when Peter bit her -

And only Alphas can make Betas -

Only -

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

Terror blooms in his chest, hot as a spill of blood, and Lydia's breathing roughens.

"Oh, _yes_," she says, and licks his nape, and he can feel her pussy _drenching_ his leg. "Always so smart. The one I should have taken. The one I _should_ have bitten - "

This isn't -

"_Mine_." And then, there's another finger in him, and a - a thumb, edging its way in -

Stiles _whines_ -

"I won't hurt you, don't worry, I won't _ever_ hurt you - "

She _is_ hurting him - but she isn't - this isn't Lydia. He knows who it is. He knows who it _is_ -

"Feel that? That's what a knot's like. That's what it _feels_ like, choking you up, sealing your hole, until you have no choice but to hold in every last drop of come, to grow slick and sweet and _full_ with it - "

No -

"Would that I could. Oh, beautiful boy, would that I _could_ - "

"You," he manages to croak out, against the gag-order on him, mind growing hazier and hazier, dick wetter, "c-can't. Peter - "

Lydia jolts, like she's been shot. And _comes_, her thighs clenching on his own - her thumb slipping into him, one last, tearing, horrifying breach, that makes _him_ come, too, shooting his jizz all over the sheets in a sudden, sickening give that feels more like breaking something than coming -

He can't _stop_ coming -

But he isn't moving, at all, _can't_ move, because she - because _they_ told him not to -

He's rigid and locked-in with every muscle protesting, within and without, nonstop sparks of electricity sizzling their way down his spine and out of his _dick_ -

And Lydia's _biting_ him -

_Just_ hard enough to pierce -

And the pain is another trauma his body can't take, that makes his ass clench around Lydia's fingers and makes everything hurt even _worse_ - especially when Lydia pulls her fingers _out_ -

Fuck, he's crying - he can taste his own tears -

"You're… Oh, Stiles, it's all right. You'll be all right. You'll live. I'm sure of it."

He'll… he'll live. Yeah, _right_, he'll -

"A boy like you? You were made for this. Made to be someone's. Made to be _mine_. Here, bring your hands down. Poor thing. Do your shoulders ache?"

His shoulders aren't the half of it. Bastard. He tries to _say_ it, but Lydia just sighs.

"No, don't talk. You'll only exhaust yourself further. Wait, I'll get something to…" And then she's gone, the bed a lighter place, an emptier and _freer_ place, and her absence makes him want to sob and vomit and just go to fucking _sleep_ -

His head still feels disembodied, like it belongs to someone else.

This can't be _happening_ to him -

What has Peter done to them? When is Lydia ever even herself, now? That, more than anything - the thought of what Peter's stolen from her, from _them_, what he's - that makes Stiles _rage_, even through his exhaustion, makes him want to turn around and rip Peter's _throat_ out -

Except that Peter -

It isn't Peter's throat that -

God. _God_ -

And that's the sound of water running, of Lydia washing her _hands_ -

He isn't crying when Lydia returns, thankfully, but there's still snot drying on his face and oil drying on his ass and come drying between his dick and the bed, so he's almost grateful for the way she wipes him clean with what must be a wet towel, because it's cold and softly bristly, but he can't turn his head enough to look directly at it, because he'd been told not to move, and the command hasn't been rescinded.

His Alpha has -

No. Peter _isn't_ his Alpha. Isn't -

"There. All done." Lydia settles over his back, still naked, her slight weight welcome at any other time, but now Stiles remembers those times and wants to _puke_, because maybe Lydia never wanted them at all, maybe Lydia never wanted _him_, maybe she's been stuck inside her own mind all along, screaming…

He's. He's raped her. If not every single time, then definitely _those_ times, when he let her tie him up, or slap him, or finger him, or -

Because it wasn't _her_, it wasn't -

"I can hear you thinking," mumbles Lydia, sleepily. "Don't worry. Given what a compassionate child you are, I know you're worried about your lady-love, but she's been quite complicit in all this, I assure you. She's as much me as I am, nowadays. For definitions of 'me' that include 'phantom consciousness,' at any rate. Like a phantom limb, but _far_ more useful." Lydia nestles her face between Stiles's shoulders. "She really is a carrier par excellence. You're familiar with carriers, yes?"

Stiles can't even grunt in reply. The paralysis is working its way through him, not just his muscles but his nerves, his _impulses_, so he's stuck there, listening, powerless to respond. But, yes. He's familiar with carriers.

"I bet you've got it all figured out, already. Yes? The bite is a disease. No matter what Derek says about it being a _gift_ - he was always such a romantic - no matter what he says, it's a disease. From a biological standpoint, that's exactly what it is - a pathogen, an infectious disease, spread by blood and saliva and, if one prefers, semen. Lacerations and bites can spread it. It's like catching rabies."

Stiles can only stare at the pillowcase, at the tiny sparrow woven onto it, one of Lydia's many designer products. She loves that sort of thing.

"But it's the _best_ disease to catch; it's empowering, not weakening. Well, if one survives the initial infection. It's like the witch's dilemma - if you float, you're burned at the stake, but if you sink, you're exonerated. Very medieval, isn't it?" Lydia chuckles. He's never heard her _chuckle_, before - she either giggles sarcastically or outright laughs. Then again, this isn't Lydia. Or not… all of her. "If your antibodies manage to fight the disease, you'll die doing it, but if you survive, well, you _are_ the disease. Congratulations."

He doesn't feel congratulated. What he _does_ feel is claustrophobic and in desperate need of ear-plugs.

"Unless you're a carrier, of course. That rarest of creatures. And Lydia - oh, what a genius intellect - and yet what a fragile little soul, so _very_ easy to sink one's roots into. She can't become one of us, see, but she can turn _others_. For me. Because she _carries_me. My disease. My mind. My _bite_."

Lydia's mouth kisses that bite, licking it with soft, comforting laps of her tongue, but they're not - they're not _comforting_, at all, no matter what they're meant to be, and Stiles would flinch away from them if he could.

"And now you do, too. Except that you _can_ be a werewolf. I'm certain of it. By the time this night is over and the paralysis has worn off, we'll know for sure. I hated to risk you, before, but now, I have to; you're the only one I can start with. The closest one. The easiest one. And also the _best_ one; there is literally none other I would want in my pack, more than you. You, alone, would even the scales against all three of Derek's pathetic clowns, his abandoned children. What is he running, an orphanage or a pack?"

Stiles experiences the unusual urge to be indignant on Derek's behalf - Derek's! - but at least Derek never possessed someone against their will and _mind-raped them_, for god's sake.

"You disapprove of my methods. Of course. That's what makes you valuable, in part. As does the fact that you'll bring _another_with you, to my fold - Scott will follow you anywhere. Certainly to where he feels you might be in danger. Your brother-friend. Your always-ally. He's already broken free of Derek, because Derek was careless enough to _let_ him; soon, he will be mine. I'll reclaim this town. As was intended. As is _right_."

And Derek? What'll -

"I'll kill Derek," says Peter, dismissively, because Stiles can't even _pretend_ this is Lydia, anymore. "Nothing personal, of course. Nothing along the lines of being betrayed by my own blood, by my own family, by my own blood."

Peter betrayed Derek _first_ -

"Mm. I love the smell of moral indignation in the morning. Except that it isn't morning, yet, and I can't actually smell you. It's a pity that Lydia's senses remain so woefully inadequate to the cause - I'd have _loved_ smelling your release, your sweat - but I can imagine, nonetheless, what your scent is like. I can remember. The way you'd smelled, when I'd offered you the bite - "

He'd almost _accepted_ -

"Perfect. You were perfect. You're _still_ perfect, and once the sun has risen, you'll be a part of my pack. We'll kill Derek. And his pets. Kill the Argents. Kill that pesky doctor, before he speaks out of turn…"

Stiles wants to _scream_, but the noise won't make it out -

"Oh, hush. It's only a bit of spring-cleaning. It'll all be calm, after that. We must be secure before we can live in peace. I'm sure you'll understand."

He won't. He'll never understand. He'll _kill_ Peter -

"Or you might just stage a revolt. But I doubt it. You can't kill me, can you? Not while I'm… well, Lydia. You can't exorcise me, either, for I am not a spirit but a pathogen, and I am so closely bound to her consciousness now that to remove me would ruin her, as well. You wouldn't want her to be reduced to a vegetable, would you? That fine mind, gone to waste?"

Kill. Kill him. Stiles will kill him. One way or another. He'll save Lydia from this _monster_ -

"But enough talking. The moon's past its zenith, my toxin's in you and you need your rest. The first transformation is always the hardest. Quite painful, too." Lydia's hands stroke down his sides, then up again, like they're soothing a skittish horse. "Go to sleep, Stiles."

_No_. He won't leave Lydia alone in there -

"Go. To. Sleep," says the Alpha, and the order _reverberates_ through Stiles, through every corner of his body, until his eyes grow heavy and his heart rate slows. "Sleep," again, but now it's Lydia's voice, more loving than it's ever been, more -

He wants to kiss her, wants to tell her he's sorry, he didn't know, he'd never -

But Lydia's words are in his _brain_, warm tendrils snaking their way in, and his mind goes dark, like a put-out lamp.


End file.
